


Black and White Thinking

by capetowndnp (suzerainty)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Best Friends, But only for a bit, Dan Howell & Phil Lester Friendship, Dan Howell Is Not A YouTuber, Dan Howell Needs A Hug, Depressed Dan Howell, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt Dan Howell, M/M, Phil Lester Is A Sweetheart, Phil Lester Is Not A YouTuber, Pianist Dan Howell, Sad Phil Lester, Slow Burn, okay thats it maybe, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 05:43:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20522903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzerainty/pseuds/capetowndnp
Summary: Daniel Howell, nineteen-year-old award-winning pianist, is thrown into stardom after being titled Young Musician of the Year. He catches not only the attention of adoring fans, but also journalists looking to make easy money from his name.With all this newfound confusion in his life, there's only one thing he knows for sure: journalists are the worst.Things change when he meets Phil Lester, a twenty-four-year-old university graduate assigned to write an article about Dan's life in the limelight.As he navigates his unfortunate hatred for attention, a new city, and a demanding career, Dan finds comfort in the most unexpected of places -- but will he ever be truly happy?





	Black and White Thinking

**Author's Note:**

> The pianist!Dan au i've been meaning to write for months is finally here. This is my first fic in years, and the first phanfic i've ever written, so sorry if it's rusty!
> 
> The title, black and white thinking, is a term used to describe a symptom of several mental-health disorders in which the sufferer tends to think only in extremes -- eg extreme self hatred or narcissism. (Also, it's a line in Dodie's song Monster, so check that out).
> 
> TW// mild use of homophobic slurs, later discussion of mental health disorders.

With a loud groan, Dan smashed his hands onto the piano in front of him. A dissonant jumble of notes rang throughout his vast apartment, echoing off of the walls and into his pierced ears.

Despite an entire week's worth of practice, Dan's recital of Rachmaninoff's _ Piano Concerto No. 3 _ was still shaky at best. The head of the London Symphony Orchestra had asked him to learn the piece last month in preparation for their debut concert with Dan as their soloist-in-residence. He'd been putting off learning it for weeks, instead choosing to wallow in his barely-furnished flat and play shitty video games. Only now had he realised that succumbing to the claws of procrastination may have been a fatal error.

The pressure for his performance to be flawless was immense. Not only was he the first ever resident soloist for England's most prolific orchestra, but also the youngest ever pianist to join them on stage. He couldn't quite get his head around how he, little _ batty boy _ Dan, had ended up in such an amazing position.

Sighing, he ran through the climax of the piece again.

Flurries of notes sounded from the luxurious piano and into the room. Dan's fingers moved over the keys with an elegant precision only possessed by the most talented of pianists. It was this refined skill that had won him the title of BBC's Young Musician of the Year aged just 18 -- the first person to win without training at a music academy.

Winning such a prestigious competition had changed his life completely -- and it had happened overnight.

After claiming the trophy, he had gone to bed in a 3 star hotel room-- all his parents could afford-- feeling an enormous sense of achievement in his heart. He had been looking forward to going back to his trusty Yamaha piano gifted to him by his Grandma many years ago, and telling her all about the competition. He'd tell her about the nerves he had felt, the tense build-up to his final piece, and how, in the end, he'd absolutely _ smashed _ it.

Unfortunately, the world had had other ideas.

When he had woken up the next morning, his phone had been inundated with phone-calls and text-messages from people he hadn't spoken to in years; people who he'd never even given his number to. They had sent him links to countless articles about his win, videos discussing his so-called 'rise to fame', and even fan-accounts set up just to talk about Dan. _ Fan-accounts _. He'd been both mind-blown and terrified.

One headline had read: 'Who is Daniel Howell? We spill all on the Young Musician winner's wild teenage life, as told by his closest friends.'

That particular article had struck a chord with Dan, as not only did he have no social life, but also no 'close friends'.

At breakfast that day he had been probed by interviewers wanting to hear all about his supposed 'rags to riches' story. Sweaty men with weathered faces had pushed microphone after microphone into his face, eager to learn the secret to becoming the best musician in England whilst attending a lowly state school. He had answered the questions in a haze of confusion, flattery, and panic, hating the sudden attention.

It had been a whirlwind after that.

One year later, although the texts and facebook messages from his former non-friends and bullies dissipated into non-existence, the media coverage carried on with an impressive consistency. Dan's face was plastered over dirty tabloids like 'The Sun', and shared by an ever-growing army of fans on twitter.

His life was strange now. Busier, and exposed in a way that made him feel like his skeleton was constantly on show. He had a manager, Jeremy, who oversaw his events and a publicist to manage his 'image'. His weekly meetings with the pair were often the only time he left the flat, especially since his parents shipped him off to London on his own sixth months ago. Apart from Louise, his long-term mum-friend, his team were also the only people he spoke to on a regular basis.

Dan's fingers moved faster and faster as the piece approached its end. He closed his eyes, letting the music take over, feeling it pulse from his heart and through his veins; tumbling out of his fingertips in a torrent of notes. Hands coming to rest, the final chord sat comfortably in the air.

Satisfied, he lifted his fingers from the keys and grabbed his phone from the table, checking the time. 14:45. He still had an hour to get to the Barbican Hall for a rehearsal with the orchestra, which should have been ample time permitting the tubes weren't delayed. _ Hah. Likely story. _

He stood up in a rush, scrambling to put some clothes on that looked more _ 'i'm a professional, serious man' _ than his shiba-inu t-shirt and scruffy shorts. After pulling on his _ very grown-up _ plain grey t-shirt his back-pocket vibrated, signalling an incoming text.

**Louise: Coffee later? I haven't seen you in ages so I think some sugar and a catch up is in order xoxox**

He read the message quickly, lips quirking at the corners as he typed out a response.

**Dan: sure as long as i don't die of humiliation when the orchestra fire me later for being too shit :)**

Sending the text, he ran out of his apartment to catch the next tube, shoe-laces still undone. If he tripped down the stairs, no-one had to know. It was between him and the security cameras.

* * *

Alas, as he sat on the tube, Dan was reminded that nothing in his life was private anymore.

His twitter mentions were flooded with shots of him teetering precariously as he walked down the final steps leading out of his apartment building. The pictures were blurry, possessing a bad zoom-quality that could only have come from an iPhone camera. Mulling over this, he let out a small breath of relief. At least it wasn't taken by paparazzi. 

Closing the app, he glanced around the busy tube. Every seat was filled with someone consumed by their phone, necks craned downwards and eyes straining to see in the carriage's flickering light. When the tube took a particularly sharp turn, the passengers' necks snapped forwards with a jolt. It looked mildly painful, yet their attention never strayed from their glowing screens. 

Dan straightened his back at the sight, rolling his neck and enjoying the release as it crunched and cracked. He needed good posture-- that's one of the many things his piano teacher had drummed into him. Her snide comments still cut through his thoughts in situations like this, seething remarks shouting in his head at every concert he played. There was always room for improvement

Absentmindedly, he began playing through the Concerto using his lap as a make-shift piano. His fingers tapped quietly onto his jean-clad thighs, making notes come to life in his head that no other person would be able to hear. The tube turned sharply again and his fingers fell into the wrong position, notes crunching in his ears. _ Huh _. Maybe he was just as consumed as everyone else.

Cracking his fingers one by one, he went back to the start of the piece. Hopefully five stops would be enough time to get the first movement perfect before the tube arrived at Barbican station.

* * *

Having been sat at the grand piano in the Barbican Hall for an hour now, it was becoming painfully obvious that five stops had not been long enough. 

The lead violinist, who might be called Janet but also might be called Jenny, kept sending frustrated looks in Dan's direction. She was at least double his age, maybe even triple, and it was clear that she was not impressed with his shoddy performance. Either that, or she thought someone with _ more experience _ deserved his place. Being only 19, Dan could understand why him having this job would piss off some of the more _ established _players in the orchestra.

A loud voice snapped Dan out of his meandering thoughts.

"Okay, people! We only have time for one more run-through this afternoon," the conductor shouted across the large room, addressing the orchestra in mass. 

He paused, rubbing his podgy hands together and turning slightly to the side.

"Dan, try to_ feel _the piece," he stressed, looking slightly exasperated and throwing a pointed look in Dan's direction. Upon noticing the pianist's worried demeanour, the man sighed, twiddling his moustache between his thumb and forefinger.

"You're playing it perfectly," he reassured, eyes softer now "I just need you to stop letting your nerves get in the way of the emotion it should convey," he finished

At that, Dan's eyes shot up to meet the older man’s. He tried to mask his shock by forcing his lips into what he hoped looked like a genuine smile.

_ Playing it perfectly my arse _, Dan scoffed. His performance had been mediocre at best.

The second movement had gone completely and utterly _ wrong _. He had forgotten to work with the dynamics of the violins, leading to a build up that held felt more like a trudge through mud than an exciting sprint. After that cock up, the atmosphere of the piece just hadn't been right. He'd even used the sustain pedal in the wrong places, for God's sake! 

_ How are you 'the best up-and-coming pianist in England' when everything you do is so God-damn average? _ a voice sounds in his head.

Noticing that the room was still silent, he shook away the thoughts, speaking quietly, "Of course, Sir. Thank you. I'll make sure it's better for Sunday night."

Chatter filled the room then, everyone apparently satisfied with his response. Everyone, it seemed, apart from the conductor. Dan gulped and watched as he shuffled over to the piano, resting his fat fingers on its glossy black lid. 

_ That's bound to leave marks. _

"I told you Dan, call me John," he smiled warmly, moustache twitching with each word, "And that reminds me! I have something exciting to discuss with you after we finish today," he finished, far too jovial for Dan's liking.

"Okay, Si-," Dan caught himself, "uh, John," he corrected. Unsure as to what the _ exciting _ news would be, he gave an awkward thumbs up and a weak smile, hoping it would be satisfactory enough for him to be left alone.

Thankfully, John left Dan with a small nod and shuffled back to the centre of the room. 

The orchestra quietened as he raised his baton. Thirty chins settled onto their rests as the violinists lifted their instruments into the air. It was just Dan and the violins playing at the start of the song, so he was particularly exposed. Still, he thought that it was better than having to sit and look pretty for half of the song like the woodwind section.

A hundred pairs of eyes followed the downwards motion of the baton, and then the concerto began to swirl around the hall. Barbican had brilliant acoustics, all high ceilings and endless wooden panels that enhanced the thrum of the strings. 

Remembering John's instructions to let some emotion out, Dan tried his best to_ let go _, fingers gliding across the keys without worrying too much about precision. They moved swiftly, creating waves of music; a hushed melody getting stronger and stronger until it commanded everyone's attention. 

His eyes closed as the push and pull of the piece took over his body and senses, immersing him completely in the increasingly frantic rhythm. By the time he opened them again, everything was silent apart from the final chord lingering in the air. 

John stood in the middle of the room with his baton down by his side, looking rather pleased as he dismissed the orchestra. 

_ That wasn’t too bad. Not good, exactly, but not horrendous. _

Hearing the shuffle of the rest of the orchestra packing up, Dan slid his phone out of his back pocket, suddenly remembering his coffee date with Louise. It had been a tiring couple of hours, and some caffeine would do him good. Ignoring the notifications from Twitter, he opened the messages app.

**Dan: rehearsal could have been worse. meet me at the usual Starbucks in an hour?**

Still hunched over on the piano stool, he pressed send. If he got the next tube he’d get his coffee fix on time. 

A sudden cough broke Dan out of his coffee-based reverie. He glanced to the side, finding John stood with his sweaty hands on the piano once again. _ Oh, crap. _ He’d managed to forget about the _ exciting _ talk even though he’d only been told about it half an hour ago. 

He quickly typed out a message to Louise telling her that he’d be an extra half an hour before pocketing his phone and throwing a smile in John’s direction. 

“You wanted to... talk?” Dan spoke nervously, wringing his hands together in his lap. He knew that the conversation was meant to be a good one, but there was always a possibility that the head of the LSO had decided that Dan wasn’t a good enough pianist and wanted to let him down gently.

“Yes! Nothing bad, don’t worry,” he gestured to the rows of seats under the stage, “Come and sit.”

Dan followed him and they sat in adjacent chairs ( which, he thought, should really be more padded considering how long the audience members have to sit still for ).

"So!" John boomed at a volume loud enough to address 100 people rather than just one, "You're very familiar with the press, yes?"

_Familiar. That's one way to put it. _

"Uh, yeah. You could say that, I guess," Dan gave a weak chuckle.

"Fantastic! Well, we've been-" John stopped and scrunched his eyes together a bit, "Or you've been, I should say, offered a very exciting opportunity for our promotion material." He recovered.

_Ah. Promotion._

Dan had gotten used to people exploiting him since his big win; it had become basically impossible to make new friends without wondering if they were only interested in his money and acclaim. The tabloids only made matters worse, publishing article after article on Dan's whereabouts every time he went out. He couldn't even have a one night stand without wondering if the person really wanted him, or whether they just wanted to see their face in the papers the next morning.

Still, he really wanted this job. 

"Sounds good," Dan tried to turn his cringe into an enthusiastic smile.

If John noticed his discomfort, he didn't acknowledge it, instead giving another big grin and rubbing his large hands together.

"Great! The angle they're going for is really interesting, they want to..."

Dan couldn't bring himself to carry on listening. His insecurities had been confirmed - the LSO had only hired him for the press coverage. Tears started pooling in the corners of his eyes and he willed them not to fall, clenching every muscle in his face as tightly as possible. His fingers went back to tapping on his thighs like they had earlier, except this time he was playing Fur Elise rather than Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 3. It was the first song he had ever learnt, and his brain seemed to push it to the forefront of his thoughts in times of stress.

_ Everything in my career has been a massive fluke. _

The thought was scary but not unfamiliar. 

_ Other people deserve my achievements, not me. I'm just disgustingly average. _

John's tone of voice must have changed then, because Dan suddenly realised the man was still talking. He tried to refocus his ears and catch the end of his sentence.

"If you're fine with that, I'll forward your address onto the journalist and they'll be round on Friday," the conductor said with a sense of finality.

And - _ oh God _. He should've been listening.

A journalist -- at his _ house _ ?! How had he got himself into this position? Normally interviews were conducted somewhere cold and sterile, allowing him to walk in and become _ Dan Howell _ , rather than _ little bum-boy Daniel _. He liked being able to leave no trace of himself in the room.

"Sounds perfect," he said, grimacing at the strain evident in his voice. He quickly stood up, heart racing, "I've got to go, actually. I've got, um... prior arrangements," the words rushed out of his mouth, voice lilting up and making his statement seem like a question.

Not bothering to say goodbye or even look at John, he scampered to leave the hall. He got halfway to the door before he heard a voice close behind him.

"Wait! Let me give you the journalist's business card before you leave," John called out, even though he was only a metre away after following Dan to the exit.

Dan accepted the card, trying his best to look grateful as he continued on his quest to escape.

* * *

Half an hour later, as he sat on the tube on his way to meet Louise, he finally looked at the card properly. His eyes scanned it quickly as he clenched it between his thumb and forefinger. It read:

**Phil Lester,**

**Music and Lifestyle Journalist,**

**Starlight Magazine.**

**phillester@starlightmag.co.uk**

To this _ Phil _ person's credit, it was a professional looking card -- and Starlight was a fairly reputable company. Still, Dan couldn't help but shiver at the thought of letting a random guy into his house. And not just any guy - a journalist, at that.

Angrily stuffing the business card into his pocket, Dan couldn't help but think that he hated this _ Phil Lester, Music and Lifestyle Journalist _ already, even if he hadn't met him yet.

**Author's Note:**

> aghhh thanks for reading!! this will be a relatively long, chaptered fic, and the next part should be up next week.
> 
> comments and feedback greatly appreciated :))


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